


pluperfect

by youcouldmakealife



Series: imparfait du subjonctif [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 17:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1867143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gérard felt more settled, at home, in Sven and Yvette's guest room, tucked between them and the baby, than he did in his own home, a high rise with a cramped balcony, his achievements on the wall. He’d take the first shift, no need for a monitor, had a sharp ear and the baby had strong lungs, would be up before either could stir. Wake each time the baby cried, half-awake until he heard footsteps, Sven’s measured and slow or Yvette’s light enough to almost miss, before he’d fall back asleep. Would make breakfast for everyone in the morning if he didn’t feel like cereal, drive with Sven to practice if they had it, or home if they didn’t, and was happy in a way he hadn’t been before. </p><p>It was a bad idea. He wanted it to last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pluperfect

People like to make a lot of the fact that Gérard met Yvette first. The team, the media, once they’re aware of it--it was mentioned in some of the speeches at their wedding, if in not his own. That Gérard had seen her alone in the room and made a move, and Sven had swept her off her feet before Gérard got more than a few words in edgewise. It’s a stupid story. It makes Sven sound like a thief, makes Yvette sound fickle, makes Gérard sound like a doormat, and none of those things are true. The only part that’s true is that Sven and Yvette had been meant for each other. Gérard had just been in the way. 

Yvette hadn’t been alone in a crowded room, Gérard hadn’t psychically realised she was French just looking at her, or anything like that, and even if he had, it was fucking Ottawa, it’s not like the chances were low. 

Gérard had seen a pretty girl with hair in a fastidious bun and worn jeans. He'd seen a contradiction, and when he went to the bar to order for the group, she was talking to the bartender, too low for him to hear anything but the cadence of her voice, the broad, Anglicized French that Gatineau favoured. When the bartender took his order and went to pour the pitchers, he asked if she came around often, and she laughed at him. He liked her immediately, took his time at the bar while she looked on, a little mockingly, like she could see right through him, and deigned to join him back at the table with a minute shrug like she may as well, since she had nothing better to do.

She ended up squeezed in between Gérard and Sven on one side of the booth, and by the end of the night, Sven was in love, or halfway there, and Gérard took the route of the gracious exit because there was no girl worth that friendship, especially when they only had eyes for Sven. By the end of the night, he could have guessed how this story would end, the rings, the house in the West End, the baby. He’d never seen Sven light up like that, not since, and he’s not sure he could handle seeing it again. 

*

Gérard wouldn't have known what to do with Yvette in the long run, how to handle her, or more fairly, she would have bored of him in an instant. Even if Sven hadn't been there, even if she'd come home with him, or on a date, the first time she met Sven she would have been gone. He’s never met two similar people so perfect for one another, a more crushing denial of opposites attracting. Sven and Yvette the most natural leaders he knows, captain and elementary school teacher, not so different jobs at times. 

Gérard would follow them to the ends of the earth.

When Sven met Yvette he already had an A, an uncanny presence and perspective that commanded attention, respect, obedience, and maybe Gérard was drawn to the same things in her that drew him to Sven, but of course he couldn't have know, saw a pretty girl, French curling out of her mouth. He might have fallen a little in love with her that night. He might have already been a little in love with Sven. He’s lucky enough it took years to notice, because in his early twenties, brash and thoughtless, he probably would have ruined it all just to hold their attention. Now he has it, effortlessly has it, and he wouldn’t give it up for anything.

*

Gérard had been content with things, with the status quo, the room on the road adjourning Sven's, Sven's deferring to him on some of the locker room decisions he knew Gérard might be better with, the two of them begging, in the dispassionate, casual way that was nothing like a plea, for him to make them dinner, either dropping in on their house, too big for the both of them but packed with future promises, empty bedrooms that would find a use, or the three of them banging knees under Gérard's small table on his balcony when it was still warm enough to eat outside. He fed them because they were terrible at feeding themselves, and Yvette taped the shows he liked when they were on the road, even if she didn’t like them herself, and laughed at Sven with him when Sven got a little drunk and started philosophizing, and tucked her feet under his thighs when they watched TV because her feet got cold and she said Sven's ass was too bony. Gérard disagreed--Sven was lanky, but he had a hockey ass like anyone else in the league--but not out loud. 

Then the inevitable, the next step of the plan. They sprung it on him at a dinner he’d made, Yvette’s fingers curled around his wrist, Sven asking if he’d be godfather. The baby was named Gérard, for Yvette’s grandfather, who spent his final years living with her family when she was a child, and had been a cantankerous old man, according to the stories Yvette always told with a ghost of a smile. Gérard was in the waiting room when he’s born, called in after the grandparents, and when he carefully tucked him in his arms, Sven hovering like he’d drop him, he’d fallen in love with him too.

It fell apart after that. He’d just been trying to help. Sven had been exhausted in the following months, more than Gérard had ever seen him, and they’d weathered play-off exits and injuries before, a concussion that left Sven dizzy and more amenable to be led than any other time, at least by Yvette and Gérard. Anyone else he was snappish with, uncharacteristically cruel, and the doctors and management threw up their hands and left him to Gérard. This was worse than Sven with a concussion, at least in terms of foreseeable ends. 

Sven was exhausted, and Yvette wasn’t been much better, though she managed to hide it more effectively, Gérard knowing her less, unable to read her from the set of her shoulders alone. So he helped--he learned how to change a diaper, and the correct temperature for milk, and how to make a baby stop crying, most of the time, and how to avoid bashing your head against the wall when no answer to the crying was going to come.

It was impossible not to love that baby, not to love something with his name, not extract too much meaning from it, even when he knew it had nothing to do with him. It was impossible not to love him, and it was impossible not to take care of him, not when he knew he could, when he knew it would help. A team was best when their captain could keep his eyes open. Gérard was really just trying to help.

A guest room became more his than anything else, his toiletries in the adjourning bathroom, suits still in drycleaning bags in the closet. He didn’t stay there every night, but he’d come to cook most nights they were home so they weren’t ordering in, and he would stay enough that the bureau became necessary to house the things he carried over a night at a time. 

Gérard felt more settled, at home, in Sven and Yvette's guest room, tucked between them and the baby, than he did in his own home, a high rise with a cramped balcony, his achievements on the wall. He’d take the first shift, no need for a monitor, had a sharp ear and the baby had strong lungs, would be up before either could stir. Wake each time the baby cried, half-awake until he heard footsteps, Sven’s measured and slow or Yvette’s light enough to almost miss, before he’d fall back asleep. Would make breakfast for everyone in the morning if he didn’t feel like cereal, drive with Sven to practice if they had it, or home if they didn’t, and was happy in a way he hadn’t been before. 

It was a bad idea. He wanted it to last. 

*

He met Geneviève when baby Gérard was four months old, and she felt like opportunity, like an exit. She was a grad student at Carleton. Infrastructure Protection and International Security, something so specific he didn't think there could possibly be a degree for it, but there was. She was brilliant, talked a mile a minute, swapping French for English and English for French without a second thought, and if he hadn't been used to the Senators’ multi-language babble, he'd have gotten lost. He still got lost sometimes, because the things she talked about were so far removed. He thought she might end up being a spy. It was possibly the only career cooler than hockey player.

They met at a Bridgehead, because he accidentally stole her drink, sleep deprived from a wailing baby and still half asleep, gathering coffee like reserves so he'd be able to delay his nap instead of going home and sleeping through lunch. He had no idea how Sven coped with it every night he was home. Had no idea how Yvette hadn't murdered Sven yet, coping with it every night. When Geneviève mentioned it was her coffee he wanted to take a gulp just so she couldn't take it away.

Instead, he gave her the drink back and ended up with her number, eternally confused as to how he managed to be even remotely charming when he'd barely been awake. She hadn't known who he was, that much was obvious, and he wasn't the most recognisable guy on the team, but it was a small city and a hockey obsessed one, so he was recognised constantly. He couldn't remember the last girl he'd gone on a date with who didn't already know who he was.

Some cared less than others--friends of Yvette's, of teammates, even teammates' extended family, sometimes, because apparently he was trustworthy and a gentleman, their words. Managed three dates with Carruthers' cousin before the Carruthers personality started to shine through, which was terrifying enough to have him put a stop to the match-making. The point was, it wasn’t like every girl he’d dated had been deeply invested in his career. It was just that he hadn't dated a girl since his career in the NHL started who didn't even _care_. And she didn't, once she knew--didn't follow sports at all, found them uninteresting, which simultaneously made him bristle and pleased him, because he managed to charm her all on her own somehow.

Gérard thought Sven would like her. They met at a team event Yvette couldn't make because their babysitter was sick, and Sven had to make because he was captain, but Sven was naturally busy, and she'd been a little overwhelmed by the madness. The fact she hadn't run away screaming after she met the team was already a good omen.

But four months in, he extended her an invitation to the Olsen-Gagnon household for dinner, because he thought Sven would like her, and even Yvette might, though was a toss-up right then, because she was short-tempered and stressed with the baby, especially with Sven gone so often. The only reason she'd agreed to company other than Gérard was because he promised to make homemade pizza, and he knew she was a little in love with his crust.

He had to start dinner as soon as they arrived, because the dough had to rest, and Sven waylaid Geneviève before she could even blink with the calm, ingratiating smile that got everyone, a good glass of red wine. Baby Gérard was with his paternal grandparents for the night, so the house was quiet in a way Gérard wasn't used to--not quiet with the potential of explosive noise, just quiet. He thought Sven would like Geneviève, because the ideas she spun were above Gérard’s head, but he thought Sven might get them. Appreciate the knowledge, even if he didn't understand it.

Yvette joined him in the kitchen, sat at the island to watch him work because she'd be no help, hopeless in the kitchen. Sven wasn't much better. There was a reason Gérard took over the cooking. "She's pretty," she said.

"She is," Gérard agreed. 

"Do you need help?" she asked, and didn't smile when Gérard raised an eyebrow.

"Do you have things for salad?" he asked. He knew they did, he went grocery shopping with Sven three days before, and he knew despite best intentions, the spring mix wouldn't have been touched. 

She rooted through the fridge, found it, the cherry tomatoes that Sven apparently shoved into the fridge to Gérard's chagrin, a light feta Gérard wanted to check the expiry date of. Her long dark hair sat in a bun at the nape of her neck, and the exposed skin was winter pale, vulnerable looking. 

"Check the expiry date," he said, and she turned to roll her eyes at him, the first spark of herself he'd seen in her all night.

She stuck around in the kitchen until dinner, and Gérard wasn’t sure if she didn’t like Geneviève or was just too tired to socialise with someone new, but he could hear Sven, measured in the next room, in English and French and a snatch of delighted Swedish she must have understood, because again, spy. He could hear her laugh occasionally, so at least he hadn’t stranded her.

Whatever lightness there was, the comfortable silence between Gérard and Yvette while he worked, Sven being charming and Geneviève charmed, it evaporated at the table, and it was silent barring a few quiet compliments to the chef. They finished off a bottle of wine, and Yvette moved to get another, but Gérard rose first, settling her with a hand on the shoulder, returning with a red he knew Sven liked. He’d planned to stay after dinner, the rare purely adult socialisation, what with a locker room of man-children and a baby demanding attention, but it was awkward, stilted. He had the urge to stay, get Gen a cab, settle on the couch with a glass of wine and the TV, listen to Yvette’s mocking commentary of whatever reality show she’d recorded for him, Sven loose and talkative after the wine. Sleep in the room designated to him, even if there was no baby to monitor. But he couldn’t, and he knew that, and after dinner Geneviève thanked them for their hospitality, and he drove her home.

The mood in the car was as tense as it’d been at the table, and he didn’t understand it any better than he had before. When he parked in front of her apartment, she said, “Come up,” but clipped, a demand and not an invitation.

He followed her up the stairs, watched the hunch of her shoulders in front of the door, and she didn’t offer him something to drink like she always did.

“Are you fucking her?” she asked.

“What?” Gérard asked, stunned. “Yvette?”

She must take his incredulity as a denial. “But you want to,” she said. 

“Where is this even coming from?” he asked.

“Oh come on, you are not subtle,” she snapped. 

"This is ridiculous," he said. 

"Look me in the eye," Geneviève said.

"What?" he asked, but dutifully did.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you've never thought of her like that, and I'll believe you," she said.

Gérard was silent. "Gen," he said after a minute.

"You're such an asshole," she said. "He's your best friend."

He didn't think it'd be helpful to note he'd thought of him like that as well.

He didn’t stay the night. She didn’t stay at all, and Gérard wanted to feel worse about it, but mostly he just felt tired.

*

Gérard didn’t mention Geneviève for a few days, and of course that was enough for Sven to notice, even if Gérard hadn’t been particularly outspoken about her before.

“Did we scare her off?” Sven asked, rueful.

“No,” Gérard said. “No, of course not.”

*

***

*  
Every year the Senators have a Christmas skate, and every year Gérard hates it. They finish early this year, have a nice long stretch of days before they reconvene and try to make-up for a poor start to a season, start a new year fresh, so they can hold the skate during the first day of the break, even though the mandatory attendance has a few guys mutinous, suitcases in their cars, flights to take so they can fuck off to wherever they come from for at least a few days. A declaration of a blanket ban on hockey for the hours they’ve been conscripted has the rest of them mutinous, Gérard included, because the Canadiens are running away with the division right now and he’d like to at least know if they’re beating Los Angeles and continuing to kick the Senators while they’re down. The settled guys are fine with it, skating slow laps with a baby, or both hands nudging a scared little skater forward, or hand in hand in hand with a beautiful woman, but the guys nudged out of the picture would like some TSN to pass the time, please and thank you. 

It isn't like those without wives, children, girlfriends have been banished from the ice, but skating alone amidst the units isn't exactly tempting for anyone, so they've cut the single guys a break, let them mingle like sad sacks with one another. Gérard could take the baby for a spin if he wanted, Sven and Yvette wouldn't mind, and the media would probably enjoy the chance to continue to joke about Gérard's namesake, but there's no place for him out there, he doesn't feel comfortable with the idea, taking Gérard out and then retreating, or lurking between Sven and Yvette and hoping no one notices he's not where he belongs. 

So instead he hangs out with the single guys, or 'single guys', since Riley's sulking because his husband’s currently in the middle of a game, and he's not allowed to watch it under the general blanket hockey ban, and Carruthers and Bowman could go skate out hand in hand and no one on the team would bat an eye. The rookies have gotten into some complicated-looking card game that involves slapping one another in the face, and the team media's all over that because that means they can put something a little more interesting than toddlers wobbling on skates in the video for the annual family skate. This means Gérard's left in peace to hide behind the pool table and Bowman and Carruthers' shenanigans, and wait the event out.

Riley's got the same idea, and they sit in comfortably bored silence for awhile, but Riley keeps twitching towards his phone like he's got a tic, and at this rate he'll get them all in trouble, so Gérard pulls his phone out, checks TSN, carefully watching to make sure the nearest front office personnel have their backs turned, because he's sure there are spies, and he has no doubt the consequences for ignoring Team Mandates are dire.

"Diver scored," he says, low. "They're up 3-1," and Riley gives him a look like he's his hero. 

"Awesome," Riley mumbles earnestly.

“Yeah, Riley,” Gérard says, slipping his phone back into his pocket, eyeing an incoming trainer with suspicion. “It’s super awesome that they’re continuing to make us look embarrassing.”

Riley shrugs. "Olsen says I'm allowed to be happy about my husband scoring goals unless they're scored against us," he says. It sounds like something Sven would say. Love over hate, etc, etc. Sven doesn't appreciate divisional rivalries the right way, and he grew up in Ottawa, cheering for the Sens, so he has absolutely no excuse. Gérard grew up cheering for the Canadiens, and he’s still better at hating them than Sven. 

Carruthers and Bowman are ostensibly playing pool, but right now they're wrestling for control of one of the pool cues. If wrestling is the word. It's currently a mixture of cuddling and grinding. There are _children_ around. Maybe not in the room, but around here somewhere. 

"This is nauseating," Gérard says, when Carruthers pinches Bowman's side and he goes the colour of his hair and elbows Carruthers in the gut in what could only be described as a loving manner.

"What, those idiots?" Riley asks, and considering Carruthers has now won the pool cue and is poking a giggling Bowman with it, Gérard considers the question to be rhetorical.

“Ugh,” Gérard says. “Where’s Sven, crying babies are better than this.”

“We’re the worst single guys ever,” Riley says easily in response. 

“What?” Gérard asks, sharp. There's nothing sly on Riley's face, teasing; it hasn't changed from the amused exasperation he’s beaming at his linemates. He just said it like a statement of fact.

“Nothing,” Riley says. “What’s the score now?”

“Shh,” Gérard hisses, but still pulls out his phone to check. He'd rather talk about the fucking Habs than follow where Riley's leading.

Intermission," he says. "I'm going to--" he jerks his thumb in a general direction that isn't right there, where Riley thinks he knows shit he doesn't. 

"Leon," Riley says, "it was a joke. The guys call you Olsen's work wife all the time. They call you it to your _face_."

They do, they have since before Sven was even married, and it's not particularly funny, but it's a joke. Riley's comment was a statement.

 _It’s none of your fucking business_ , he thinks but doesn’t say, because that’s too close to an admission, and there’s nothing to know, not really, just his lack of boundaries, just Sven and Yvette’s indulgence of them. It must look pathetic from the outside, but it doesn’t feel that way, not most of the time. Except when he has distance from it. When he’s counted among the worst single guys, among Riley’s divisional star-crossed marriage, Bowman and Carruthers’ worst kept secret. Counted among them because he’s a masochist who isn’t happy unless he’s as close to where it hurts as he can be. 

“I’m going to find Sven,” he says, and dares Riley to say something, but he doesn’t. Gérard would take that as a good thing, that there’s nothing that can said about it, but perhaps at this point there’s just nothing worth saying.


End file.
